


If You Keep a Green Bough in Your Heart, the Singing Bird Will Come

by LaDonnaErrante



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory, Poorly Disguised Beatles References, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaDonnaErrante/pseuds/LaDonnaErrante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Love is so short and forgetting so long”</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Keep a Green Bough in Your Heart, the Singing Bird Will Come

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to D for helping to shape this from the very beginning and working English teacher magic on my ideas. And heartfelt gratitude to P for all of the time spent betaing and making this the best fic possible. All remaining errors and awkward phrases are mine alone. The title is adapted from a Chinese proverb. Quotes come from “Ofyn Veg Shteyt A Boym” by Itzik Manger, Translated by George Jakubovits; “Poema 20” by Pablo Neruda, translation mine.

**_Ale feygl funem boym  
_** Zaynen zikh tsefloygn.  
All the birds of that tree  
have flown away. 

Remus Lupin stares at the peat fire burning in his hearth. A bottle of Ogden’s Finest rests on the coffee table. His chest hurts. His whole body aches. He wants to jump out of his skin into the fire, wants to be anywhere but here and now.

Dumbledore’s words knock around his head: _Write him,_ he’d urged, saying Harry needed to know that someone is hurting over Sirius’ death just as much as he is…except Remus is fairly certain that his own pain differs significantly from Harry’s grief.

Harry has lost his godfather, the closest thing he’s had to a parent in fourteen years. Remus has lost the love of his life. For the second time. Harry has friends who love him, who will see him through anything, it seems. Remus used to have friends like that. He doesn’t think it’s a particularly good idea to expose Harry to what it’s like to lose everyone who matters.

It’s admittedly an excuse. The bottom line is that Remus is not ready to share. He and Sirius never explained their relationship to Harry. “He’ll figure it out when he’s ready” had always been Sirius’ attitude and though Remus rather thought Harry might be resentful about being kept in the dark about such an important matter, Sirius was the godfather and so had the last word.

No, he cannot bear to open himself to what might come of talking with Harry about Sirius. The risk of laying down the truth of their lives, when Harry is already so angry at Sirius for dying, is unthinkable. Remus doesn’t believe he can withstand the fury of a fifteen year old boy.

He remembers losing Sirius the first time, how he raged for days. He had been angry for Harry’s sake, for James and Lily, and for poor Peter, yes, but mostly for himself. Well, at himself too. He had been furious that he’d trusted the traitorous bastard, with his heart no less. Letters and photos had been burned. Torn between anger and disbelief, he had dumped the entire lot into the fire at once, trying to pretend that none of it mattered. It hadn’t worked.

Remus is angry now, too. This time, his hurt and anger are tempered by having seen this coming for so long, having known that Sirius’ restlessness and heroics would get the better of him. Could he have prevented it? If anyone could have seen the inevitable coming, it was him. But he hadn’t believed it possible to make a difference, sort of like trying to stop the Hogwarts Express by planting a sapling in its track. If he is truly honest with himself, Sirius’ refusal to be caged is why he loves the man.

Remus could make himself crazy trying to suss out if Sirius’ death was unavoidable, but doesn’t. He would rather not know, anyway. He doesn’t think he can survive knowing that any chance for a life of happiness fell through the veil along with Sirius.

When Sirius went to Azkaban, the fire consumed the relics of better times. Now there is nothing to burn but memories.

The thought gives him pause. Nothing to burn but memories. There are so few things in life he has the ability to make less painful.

He cannot obliviate himself without great risk, but he can remove the most poignant memories. He can take away any knowledge that Sirius was his lover. He will only have lost another friend. The memories are too painful to keep anyways.

 _Repression, by any other name,_ Remus observes.

Tempted as he is, Remus knows that he cannot remove Sirius entirely. Without Sirius, who would he be? Plus, it would raise a flag among the few people left who actually care about him, if all of a sudden he could not remember a fellow marauder. At the very least he can seal the richest moments in a safe place. If there are no magic words to take the pain away, there is certainly magic to dull it.

Remus wants to relieve his memories in their exquisite beauty and pain before he locks them away forever.

It is almost what Sirius would have wanted. Copious amounts of alcohol and stories. _Sirius’ wake,_ he thinks, raising the bottle of Ogden’s to make a toast. “To Gryffindor bravery, black madness and pedantic werewolves. To you and me.” He takes another swig before getting up to fetch a vial, a wooden box and the pensieve from his store of magical supplies.  
.

 

**_Un dem boym gelozt aleyn  
_** Hefker far dem shturem.  
And the tree is left alone  
abandoned to the storm. 

Remus is on his way to bed when he hears the stifled sounds of someone crying. He pauses at Sirius’ bedroom door, a sliver of light peeking through the crack. Sirius hasn’t left the light off since he’s arrived at Lupin’s cottage, disheveled and careworn. Remus knocks softly. There is a whimper from inside. He cautiously opens the door to see Padfoot curled up in the pillows, looking forlorn.

Remus makes his way over to the bed and sits, gently stroking the dog’s thick black hair. Padfoot places his head in Remus’ lap and morphs into Sirius. A tear runs down his cheek. Remus’ long fingers play gently in thin black strands of hair and rub too bony shoulder blades. It has been a long time since they've shared this touch. Though he expected Sirius to have changed, Remus hadn't expected that the man would feel this different in his arms, smaller and more vulnerable. There is a blitheness that is missing now, and even though their aging bodies fit together well, Remus finds himself beginning to ache and shifts to a more comfortable position.

“C'mere then,” he says softly. And Sirius does, resting his head on Remus’ chest, allowing Remus’ arms to envelop him. He lets the slow rise and fall of Remus’ breathing calm his own shaky breath.

They sit for what feels like an age, until Sirius lifts his head and wipes his nose. “Tell me a story.”

It takes Remus a moment to catch up. “What kind of story?”

“Any story.”

“Hmmm,” Remus muses softly.He considers for a moment and then begins.

“Once upon a time there was a bird, a raven, who lived in a great forest. He was a brave and gregarious bird; his calls always rang through the trees and beckoned his friends to him. He could be quite reckless as well - he was always getting into these scrapes, you see. Though they usually weren’t very bad. In fact, his intention was often to help his friends, but he would take these enormous risks that often didn’t end well. Anyways, the raven flew through the forest, but he made his home in the same tree day after day, year after year. The tree grew used to his nest and always let the Raven’s friends into its branches as well. The Raven was friends with a hawk and a sparrow and as I’d mentioned before they were always getting into messes together. And even when they were unable to get themselves out of trouble, the tree always sheltered them.

“Then one day, a great cloud covered the forests; it sent the worst storm the forest had ever seen. It grew dark as night, interrupted by random flashes of lightning and thunder that shook the tree to its roots. The raven was sure the storm would pass soon enough, and in the beginning, his friends agreed. But the storm didn’t pass. It rained for weeks. The little sparrow, drenched the bone, was the first to fly off, heading south to warmer climes. Eventually even the hawk felt he had to move his brood. On their way out of the forest, the family of hawks was struck by lightning. The Raven saw his friend fall to the ground and couldn’t bear the thought of being alone in the storm. He tried to make it back to the tree, but the wind howled fiercely and blew him off course again and again. He watched as the trees around him were split by lightening, branches trailing onto the forest floor. He could smell burnt wood and wet earth. He searched and searched for the tree, but it was nowhere to be found. He became convinced that the tree had been blown away. So, in a rage, he flew into the cloud to pick a fight with the lightning bolts. To this day, he sits in the cloud, squabbling with the thunder and lightning.”

“And the tree?” Sirius asks sleepily.

“The tree was there all along. The storm never did move it. And the tree watches the raven battle in the clouds hoping that someday he will come home to roost.”

Remus finishes quietly. He glances down at Sirius whose lids are closed and whose breathing has slowed. Remus carefully begins the process of extricating himself. He is halfway out the door when he hears the sheets shift.

“Remus?”

“Hm?”

“Stay with me.”

Remus turns around and slips back into bed. It has been so long since they’ve fallen asleep in each others arms. He watches the shadows of branches play against the wall in soft moonlight and feels the slow rise and fall of Sirius’ chest on his own. _It would be so easy_ he thinks, _to pretend like things are back to normal, the way they used to be._ But Sirius is moaning in his sleep and clutching at Remus; it is, a nightmare, clearly. Sirius never used to have bad dreams. Something feels not quite right about this. As if the person he’s been yearning for all these years doesn’t really exist anymore. Healing is painful, sometimes more painful than incurring the wound itself. _It’s a lesson,_ he supposes, _I really ought to have learned years ago._

**_Zog ikh tsu der mamen: -her,  
_** Zolst mir nor nit shtern,  
I say to momma--"Listen,  
If you don't stand in my way” 

 

Sirius is alone in the dark sitting room of the flat he shares with Remus “the spy” Lupin. His hands curl around a cup filled with tea and whisky gone cold. He stares at the clock, vacillating between anger and worry. It is gone three in the morning and Remus is late. Very late. 7 hours late.

Sirius knows that this is a war, and wars do not run on schedule. The knowledge does not change the pit of worry and fear making its way to the bottom of his stomach.

The voice of reason in his head tries to calm him, speaking in Remus’ soft tones. _Werewolves are not known for their punctuality,_ it says to him quietly. But this isn’t a matter of turning up 5 minutes late to lessons or never being ready to go out precisely at the appointed time.

No, Remus is seven hours late getting back from his first official Order mission.

 _You knew this was a bad idea,_ says the nagging voice in Sirius’ head. And indeed, he had spent a great deal of time and energy trying to convince Remus not to go. They had stood in this very sitting room, little more than a month ago when Remus came home from a meeting with Dumbledore and announced that he’d be spending the better part of the next 28 days getting to know the underground London werewolf scene. No human contact allowed.

The conversation that changed everything replays itself over and over in Sirius’ mind. Isn’t this proof that he was right? Or is there something he missed? Maybe, Remus isn’t coming back at all.

*****  
When Remus told the news, his face was full of hope and pride. He launched into his myriad plans for building relationships and breaking into the pack, and how all his reading on werewolf pack socialization would finally come in handy, and did Sirius think that the pack dynamics established by the Marauders would prove to be a useful paradigm?

Sirius had been quiet. He had tried very hard not to display how shocked and upset he had been, but, then, he never had been good at hiding his feelings from Remus.

When Remus finally took a breath and looked at Sirius expectantly, his face fell.

“What’s wrong?” There was anxiety in his voice.

Sirius tried to look pleased. “Nothing.”

“Aren’t you happy for me?” Remus was confused.

“I guess…isn’t it….erm, won’t it be dangerous?”

There was a long pause and finally, Remus looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

“We’re in a war. We joined the Order. Full-time. Of course it’s dangerous.”

“But I mean do you really have to do _that_?”

“What else am I supposed to do, Sirius?” Exasperation and incomprehension sound in Remus’ voice.

“I don’t know. Not go away. Not live with a pack.”

“Sirius, you’ve been on three missions for the Order already. I’ve been stuck in a dusty library researching defensive spells. This is my chance.”

“I was never gone for a month. Why does it have to be werewolves?”

“What is this about, Sirius? You know that no one else in the Order can do this.”

“Which makes it all the more unsafe. Besides, half of them are already working for You-Know-Who.”

“We don’t know that. Do you have a problem with werewolves, Sirius? Because if so, I think you should know, you’ve been sleeping with one for two years.”

That stung, and it threw Sirius’s defense off. Remus walked out. Sirius heard the bathroom door slam.

Sirius had tried to make amends as best he could. But he hadn’t actually been sorry for trying to keep Remus from going and he wasn’t going to apologize without meaning it. Remus would never accept.

*****

The sound of a key turning in the door makes Sirius freeze.

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to run into the hall and embrace Remus. Fear keeps him rooted to the seat. What if it isn’t even Remus?

“Sirius?”

The voice calling is familiar.

“What are you sitting in the dark for?” He lights the room with his wand.

“Waiting for you.” It comes out more ominously than Sirius intended.

“We’d better check,” Remus says suddenly, his voice quiet.

Sirius nods, swallows hard.

“What was the first prank we played together?” Remus asks.

“Cauldron of stinksap over the door to Slughorn’s office. Your tipping charm made it all possible.”

They both smile at the memory.

“You’re late,” Sirius says, some of the tension gone from his voice.

“I’m sorry. Were you worried?” There is a flippancy in Remus’ voices that is unacceptable. Sirius cannot tell if the question is sincere.

“Was I worried? You were supposed to be here _hours_ ago. I thought you’d been killed or worse, or that you weren’t coming back to the Order. I’ve been sitting here all night, wondering if you were dead or captured or switched sides or were lying injured in a ditch or weren’t coming back to me.”

“You think I’d change sides?” Remus asks incredulously.

Sirius is annoyed. Remus has obviously missed the point.

“Of course not. Not actually, anyways. But the possibility did occur to me when Dumbledore said he didn’t know what was holding you up.”

“He lied,” Remus observed gravely.

“Who lied?”

“Dumbledore,” There is a heavy pause. “He knew that I was delayed by the alpha, who wanted to meet with Order representatives. He couldn’t talk about it. It was very last minute and any leakage could have—“

“He could have at least told me you were okay. For Merlin’s sake, I’m your lover! I mean what if something really had been wrong? Would he have told me then? Don’t I deserve to know? I’ve been so worried, the whole month.”

Remus softens. “He wasn’t supposed to know anything about me, officially, until I reported back at the end of my mission. I know it wasn’t fair and I’m sorry. It was out of my control. But I _am_ glad to be back. And I’m glad you’re here.”

Sirius lets some of his tension melt away.

Remus looks at him with empathy, that same comforting look Sirius has seen on his face a million times. Except there is a new weariness behind it, something intangible in the almost smile that makes Sirius think Remus has returned older than when he left.

Remus places a hand on Sirius’ arm. “I am sorry for having worried you Sirius. I do love you.”

“Love you too,” Sirius mumbles and pulls Remus into a hug. It is uncomfortably tight, Remus notes.

**_Un eyder vos un eyder ven,  
_** Bin ikh mir a foygl.  
Because before you know it,  
I'll be a bird." 

 

 

“It’s no use!”

Sirius storms out of the kitchen.

Remus’ face is drawn and pale. They have been arguing all afternoon. It is the eve of the full moon; Snape has been by with Wolfsbane and succeeded in his concerted effort at stirring the pot. Thanks to his goading, Sirius wants to take the wolf out to play tonight and Remus will have none of it.

He hopes this isn’t the last straw, the time Sirius will finally be as reckless as he has threatened. He has only just got Sirius back. And they haven’t had a chance to normalize yet.

He had grand illusions about Sirius’ return. How they’d set up house in the country. Then maybe, once Voldemort was defeated, Sirius would finally have the chance at that curse-breaking career he’d always wanted. And Remus would teach, if not at Hogwarts, at a muggle secondary school. They’d keep a garden and invite Harry over for Sunday dinner.

Instead, he is living with a grumpy man-child in a house that hates them both. It isn’t fair, really, he supposes, to expect Sirius to have matured normally. In a way, Sirius is still twenty-one. Though Remus isn’t sure where exactly that leaves him. He feels just as stuck as Sirius. What will be left to him when Sirius finally breaks free?

He finds Sirius sulking in the great room on the floor by the fire, hugging his knees to his chest. It is a position Remus knows well from their time at Hogwarts.

He joins Sirius by the fire, sitting close but not touching.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“No. You clearly don’t. Or you wouldn’t say no.”

*****

Sirius gazes into the flames jumping and licking at the logs. Remus is the same as Dumbledore and Mad-Eye. Wanting him to sit at home and do his pretty face. Urging him to be a good boy, as if he really were a dog. He had never been the sort you patted on the head and praised. He was the child who fidgeted through every formal dinner, waiting for the pudding so he could watch the adults grimace as they realized they’d salted their tea. He was the restless teenager who skived off History of Magic at least twice a week for seven years to explore the castle. Remus knows him better than anyone alive. Remus should know what it means for him to be cooped up; of all people, he should understand.

Sirius has been in a prison of one kind or another his whole life. He made his first escape at age 16, flying out of Grimmauld Place on a cold December night. During the first war, he’d made plenty of daring escapes on his motorbike. He had broken out of Azkaban, hadn’t he? Used Padfoot for years to break rules and dull the sharp pains of human hurt. And who could forget the flight he was most proud of? Bamboozling the Ministry, slipping out from right under the Dementors’ noses, all because of Harry.

If anyone knew the real Sirius, the one who was constantly running away from whatever cage they tried to hold him in, changing shape and reinventing himself to fit a new life, it was Remus. Because whatever that liberty held for him, it was empty without Remus. Of all people, Remus should know that being stuck here, back in his childhood prison, is really not much better than being in Azkaban. Instead, Remus is doing everything in his power to keep Sirius chained.

Sirius knows it’s not a fair assessment. He knows that Remus would much rather they were back at his own cottage than in the big city, than in this house, with Sirius’ mother screaming curses and daily reminders of what Sirius’ freedom cost him. He knows that Remus wants to live with him in a house where he has a name instead of a burn mark on a tapestry.

Then Sirius remembers _why_ Remus understands better than anyone, and yet can’t be convinced to break free. Remus has spent his life imprisoned in his own body and there is no escape from that Sirius knows. When he had arrived at Lupin’s cottage last summer, he hadn’t expected Remus to have grown up so completely. He had seen the gray hair in the Shrieking Shack, but it hadn’t meant anything then. He had imagined Remus to be just as green and hopeful as in their youth: sure that being a werewolf couldn’t impede true potential, certain that the Marauders would make it through just because the glass always had to be half full. What Sirius found was a Remus withered, withdrawn, petrified almost, weary of a world which refused to accept him and weary of a body which could not be trusted. It only makes Sirius feel more trapped.

The fire has dimmed and he feels Remus move beside him to put on another log. As the flames catch at new fuel and slowly grow, he wishes, not for the first time, that he were a phoenix. He wonders when this prison will become too much and what form his flight will take.

 

**_Ibern vinter mit a treyst  
_** Mit a sheynem nign.  
during the winter and comfort it  
With a lovely tune 

 

Remus Lupin steps off the Hogwarts express into the cold January night. He clutches a piece of parchment tightly in a gloved hand and makes his way hurriedly down the road from the village to school.

As he nears the school he sees a lone figure standing at the lake. Dark hair whips around in the wind.

 _No hat then,_ Remus notes. _No coat to speak of, either. Nutter._

He veers away from the path cutting a new trail through the crusty snow. His boots crunch so loudly Sirius must hear him approaching, but he doesn’t turn or even tilt his head.

*****  
Sirius stares into the night sky. He has squared his shoulders, resolutely trying not to think about the very thing that he can’t avoid. He tries not to see the constellations burned into his brain, wishing the very knowledge of them could be erased as easily as his name from the family tree. His eye catches the Dog Star, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to have no name, to disappear into the night. But then there is the crackle of footsteps on old snow and the rise and fall of someone who is out of breath, a warm body at his side.

He knows Remus has come for him. He hears the crinkle of parchment being stuffed into a pocket and knows it must be the note he sent. He lets out a groan and tips his head back, closing his eyes.

*****

“Sirius?” Remus tries. He gets no reply. He stands closely, hoping that at least some of his body heat will transfer as Sirius looks positively frozen.

Remus ventures a hand on a shoulder. He means to be reassuring without crowding Sirius with the million questions he so desperately wants to ask.

Then the tears start rolling. Remus’ hand gently starts to rub back and forth across Sirius’ back and neck. Sirius shudders and his shoulders shake. He turns to face Remus, who pulls him into his arms, holding tightly. Sirius’ icy, wind chapped cheek, wet with tears, is cold against his own.

“You came.” Sirius sounds surprised. There is snot mingled with tears as he buries his face in Remus’ neck.

“Shhhhh,” Remus soothes, “I’m here.”

This isn’t the first time Sirius has cried on Remus’ shoulder. In fact, Sirius Black, Marauder Extraordinaire, who pretends to most of the world as if feelings were the stuff of mere mortals, regularly brings his hurts to Remus. However, it is the first time that Sirius has done so without storming around angry for days and then punching (or threatening to punch) Remus before breaking down. This time, there was only a scrap of parchment delivered by a post office owl, the terse sentences a warning that Remus couldn’t ignore:

“M—Back at Hogwarts early. Come if you can.—P”

 

There are only a limited number of things it could be, Remus had reasoned with himself on the train. Given that the owl delivering the letter was clearly from a post office, and Sirius was at Hogwarts, he must have had some trouble with his family. Remus knows that Sirius hadn’t been looking forward to holidays. Sirius had been unusually tense beforehand, storming about the decorated castle, becoming quiet anytime anyone so much as mentioned Christmas presents, and generally putting on his trademark nonchalance, that attitude that really meant: “I will never admit it but I care so very much about what is going to happen.”

Seeing Sirius like this is alarming: so very upset and out in the dead of winter without anything to keep him warm. And who knows how long he’d been standing there before Remus arrived.

Sirius calms considerably and Remus draws away slowly.

Sirius looks at him with wonder. “You came back,” he says again, not quite believing it, his hands firmly grasping Remus’ upper arms.

“’Course I did, you daft bastard. Somebody had to make sure you didn’t freeze your bullocks off.” Remus smiles and pokes him gently in the chest.

Sirius laughs, then pauses a moment and a serious look comes over his face. Remus thinks he may not have avoided a punch after all. Sirius leans in suddenly and presses his mouth against Remus’.

It takes him a moment to process—Sirius’ cold lips on his own, their noses bumping. _Sirius is snogging me_ , he observes somewhat distantly. Then, it hits him. _**Sirius is snogging me**_.

He can’t know whether Sirius is aware that he’s wanted this for so long, much less guess what has prompted Sirius to do this in the first place. He wonders if this is just a substitute for the punch that never preceded the cry. But then, one of Sirius’ icy hands wraps around his neck, pulling him closer, and he surrenders to the kiss.

When they finally break apart, they are both flushed.

“What was that?” Remus gasps.

“Been wanting to do that for ages,” Sirius answers with a smile. He shrugs as his smile becomes a grimace. “And now that I’ve been disowned for it, I thought I might as well have a go at it.”

Remus looks at him with wonder, and quickly kisses him again.

“C’mon,” Remus says with satisfaction as he takes off his scarf and wraps it around Sirius’ neck. “Let’s get you inside.” He removes a glove and takes Sirius stiff hand in his warm one. Together they make their way back to the castle.

 

**_Oyfn veg shteyt a boym,  
_** Shteyt her ayngebogen  
On the road stands a tree,  
it stands bent and deserted 

 

The fire is burning low and the sky is lightening into the first signs of dawn when Remus pulls the last strand of silver from his head and drops it into the now full vial. He corks the flask and places it in the wooden box.

Wand in hand, he whispers “ _pyrographus,_ ” and burns a verse onto the lid of the box.

“Love is so short and forgetting so long”

He seals the box with a spell and places a kiss on top.

It hasn’t helped. Not yet, anyways. He still feels rubbed raw by a cold wind. Though some of the details are fuzzy, the grief is no dimmer.

The day is breaking and Remus aches. There is still crispness in the air when the sun peeks over the horizon and he walks out into the garden. His limbs are stiff. He kneels in front of his favorite tree, an ancient oak. Summer is underway and birds twitter aimlessly in its green branches, greeting a new day. Remus sets down the box of memories at the base of the tree between two enormous roots poking baldly out of the soil. He places a hand on the box and whispers to it. He looks at it for as long as he can bear and then stands up, using the trunk for support. He keeps his hand there, resting on the rough bark, reluctant to leave, not wanting to let go. A memory arrests him: throwing a stick for Padfoot last summer, the dog’s happy barking scaring away all the birds. _You won’t forget him._ He sighs. There is some relief there. Remus walks into the house alone.


End file.
